


our lips raw with love

by notquiteaghost



Series: and love too [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Croatoan Virus, Multi, Post-Apocalyptic, Second person POV, everyone dies and everything hurts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteaghost/pseuds/notquiteaghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has ended. The government has collapsed. Enjolras, ever the natural-born leader, tries to piece together a community in the ashes. Grantaire follows him, for lack of anything better to do.</p><p>This isn't about them, though. This is about everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the croatoan virus, for the purposes of this story, is a science experiment gone wrong. it's spread through blood (primarily through biting/clawing), and turns people into rabid killing machines. they're _not_ zombies; their driving force is to spread the virus. they're stronger than the average human, but they're just as easy to kill. it takes just under 10 minutes for the virus to take affect, and then just over an hour for cognitive function to dissipate. 
> 
> so, this is a side/companion piece to [and love too](http://archiveofourown.org/works/731170). the time-lines of both are going to jump all over the place. the first two chapters of this were originally posted in ALT; this is me being odd about organisation and trying to keep certain POVs in certain places.
> 
> essentially, this is everything that happens in the ALT universe that doesn't directly concern grantaire/isn't from grantaire's POV. because this universe kinda got away from me. oops. so this might not make much sense without reading ALT, because i think i explain things there that i don't here? idk. if i make a reference here and you don't get it, reading ALT may clear it up. if not, it'll probably come up some time soon in either fic; if you're impatient, feel free to ask.
> 
> title is from 'raw with love' by charles bukowski; " _i will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had, and how i offered you what was left of me._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bahorel!POV

This isn't love.

It isn't.

It _isn't_.

Love - like parents, money to spare and a sense of achievement - is one of those things that happen to someone else. You don't get love. Love doesn't get you.

This isn't love. Love is fairy tales, romance, flowers and poetry and tender glances. This is fistfights and insults and bruises. This is not love.

Love and you, ever since that first orphanage, you're not on speaking terms. Love is conditional. Love is temporary. 

Love is finnicky.

This is above that. You are above that.

You are not scared to hurt him. He is not scared to hurt you. Heck, that's half the fun of it. You _like_ being at his throat one minute and in his bed the next. You enjoy being kept on your toes.

You love it. You love him, not that you'd ever admit it. But this isn't love. It isn't about love.

It's about survival. It's about doing anything and everything you can to survive. It's about risks and fights and placing everything you have in each other, because there's no way to know what will happen tomorrow so fuck it, you'll throw it all away today. You enjoy being kept on your toes.

Love doesn't get you. Love doesn't get to keep you.

He does.

-

On Queen, you get into a fist fight by noon.

This is not the first time this has happened.

Usually, however, your opponent doesn't try to rip out your jugular with their _teeth_.

You knock him out and leave the body where it falls, because it's a thirty-something spends-four-hours-a-week-in-the-gym probably-plays-tennis-at-the-weekends man and you have not had the kind of week that allows for actually killing men with your bare fucking hands. 

You stumble back into your flat with a bruise blooming just below your eye, three long and annoyingly deep scratches running down your neck, and a limp. Feuilly is led on the couch, cigarette in hand, all your collective worldly possessions in three bags at this feet, looking expectant.

"We're leaving." He announces. "The city is a fucking mess. How d'you feel about turning nomadic?"

"Took the words right out've my mouth." You reply, leaning down to grab two of the bags and pressing a kiss to his lips whilst you're at the ideal level for it. Might as well go now, before it gets dark. Not like there's anything stopping you.

-

You do, eventually, kill someone with your bare hands.

You don't want to. (Fights start to lose their edge, when you're fighting for your life instead of just your liberty, when you're always bruised and aching, when you've killed more people, not that they're really people but fucking hell what else are you meant to call them, when you've killed more of those goddamn things than you can care to count. You can get used to anything, Feuilly's always muttering. You can get sick of anything, too).

It's a fucking ambush.

Well, if you can call it an ambush. Croats don't really have the higher thinking required for that kinda strategy. It's more coincidence, really.

Either way, there's eight of them and two of you, and one of them's got a fucking machete of all things, and you've got two rounds of bullets and one switchblade between you.

It's your longest fight in a while.

They all go down, of course. It just takes time, far more of it than you'd like. They don't get any blood or teeth in, thank fuck, but you're pretty sure one of your ribs is cracked, there's a gash that is definitely going to need stitches in your thigh, and Feuilly can't stand.

Feuilly can't stand.

Feuilly is lent against the wall, and fuck his leg shouldn't be able to bend at that angle, fuck fuck fuck, what did 

you miss, when did this happen, _fuck_.

You lift him, bridal style. He tries to protest. You threaten to knock him out.

He mutters that you're a fucking bastard and he fucking hates your fucking guts, and you roll your eyes and kiss his forehead and tell him to give the fuck in and take a fucking nap, god knows he fucking needs it.

-

The thing about this new world, this smoking pile of ash, this shadow of it's former self of a planet, is when you get injured, there isn't a hospital. There are no doctors to turn to, no waiting rooms to pace in, no one and nothing to turn to. And, sometimes, nothing to do but wait.

Feuilly will never walk the same again.

You're damn lucky he's such a scrap of a thing, really, because it means you can pick him up and carry him, if worst comes to worst. He can't run away anymore. He couldn't get more vulnerable if he goddamn tried.

You keep moving, though.

After four months on the move, you've started to forget how not to. You need it, the constant motion, the distraction, to get through the day. And God forbid you suggest that Feuilly's not strong enough, that Feuilly needs help, that maybe it'd be better if you found somewhere a little more permanent.

You keep on keeping on.

What else can you do?

-

You don't mean to find the camp.

You have already wandered through three like-minded settlements. They were all equally unappealing.

You don't mean to find the camp. You don't mean to like the camp. And you definitely don't mean to stay.

You stumble in at almost eleven at night - which, pre-Queen, was about the time you left for a night out, but oh, how times have changed - with Feuilly on your back, passed out cold. If the day had gone just a little bit better, if you hadn't been out of food and matches and if Feuilly hadn't somehow got the fucking flu, then you would never have stayed. 

You wouldn't have even stopped.

Funny how the world works.

As it is, as it happens, your day had gone to complete and utter shit, you were in desperate need of warmth and shelter, and the camp did look really fucking inticing.

You're greeted by a curly-haired man with a knife in one hand.

"Who are you?" He asks, bluntly.

"Friends." You assure him. "I'm Bahorel, this is Feuilly. We could really do with some hospitality, if you'd be so kind."

"Grantaire." The man replies. "Pleasure, I'm sure."

There's an odd look in his eyes, like he's hollow. Like someone's hollowed him out. 

Almost everyone has an odd look in their eyes nowadays, though, so you don't dwell on it. God knows you don't like staring at your own face for long anymore.

"If you'd follow me," Grantaire continues, "I'll show you to a bed, wake up my boy in charge, get you some food and some clean clothes and some meds." And then he takes off, walking briskly towards one of the cabins on the opposite side of the square. You follow, slightly slower for virtue of the stupid arsehole you're carrying.

You don't mean to stay. Honestly, you don't.

It's just easier.

They have meds, painkillers and flu meds and antibiotics, and Feuilly has a fever. Feuilly is seriously sick, and one of the guys here, Joly, he was a med student pre-Queen, he knows his way around a sick person. You don't. 

Grantaire's 'boy in charge' turns out to be a fae-like man called Enjolras, who is simultaneously the most feminine and the most intimidating male person you have ever met. He welcomes you with open arms, even if he does have one hand resting on the gun strapped to his thigh, and invites you to stay for as long as you need to.

You need to stay until Feuilly is well. And then you need to stay until the snow melts, in case Feuilly gets sick again. And then you need to stay until summer, until the days are longer and the nights are warmer. And then you need to stay until you've taught Courfeyrac how to fix the generator, and then you need to stay until Jehan has taught you how to make a gun from scratch, and then you need to stay until the roof on Grantaire's cabin is repaired, and then, and then, and then...

And then it's been two years and the camp has become your home and it's inhabitants have become your family, and you've forgotten how to be nomadic, and you've given up on making excuses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> courfeyrac!POV.

This is the first time you have ever been to this town.

It's, if this is even possible, the emptiest you've ever been in. You're been walking for ten minutes, and you haven't seen a single person.

Well. You've seen corpses. Of course you've seen corpses. Corpses are the new pigeons.

But you haven't seen a living, breathing person. You haven't even seen any Croats.

And then you come to the bookshop.

It's tucked away between a cafe - the front glass window shattered, the inside a mess of broken wood and blood - and a clothes store - front window intact, just, but the inside chaos. It's, well, it's like the eye of a storm. 

It's untouched.

You hesitate, cast a glance around for the others. You can just catch a glimpse of Enjolras' goddamn red jacket through the window of a convenience store across the road, close enough to hear if you scream. Your gun is in your pocket.

You push the door of the bookshop open.

The inside is stuffed full to bursting, books as far as you can see. And other things, too, food and candles and guns and bandages, all stacked upon each other in some strange jigsaw puzzle of an organisation system.

"Hello?" You call, walking into the shop.

There's a clatter from the corner, and a someone emerges. A someone with blonde hair braided with flowers and floral-patterned jeans and a gun. Of course they have a gun, guns are the new black, this season's must-have. You're stuck on the jeans more than anything.

"Who are you?" The someone says. They're aiming the gun at your head. You are worryingly unfazed by this. 

"A friend." You say, easily, with a smile, like a promise. Since Queen, you have been smiling more and more, with less and less cause to, to make up for how no one else is. Someone has to remember how to wear happiness as anything other than an ex-lover's jacket or a bulletproof vest. "We have a camp near here. Refuge, if you will."

"We?" Suspicious. Quite right too. 

You hold your hands above your head. A little reassurance never hurt anyone. "Myself and three others. 

They're around here somewhere. Supply run." A beat. "You're the only person, higher thought process or otherwise, I've seen."

"This is my patch." is the reply. The someone still hasn't lowered the gun, or given you any kind of emotion to work with. You are still completely unfazed. 

"You're certainly keeping it well-maintained." You say, still easily, still with a smile. "I'm Courfeyrac. It's a pleasure to meet you."

You do not offer your hand. There is still a gun aimed at your head, after all.

And then the gun is lowered. "I'm Jehan. How far away is your camp?"

"Half an hour's walk."

You are about to extend an invitation, an offer of food or supplies or anything, really, anything at all that would get this beautiful man to relax a little, but you are interrupted by a shout from the street. 

"Courf!" That's Grantaire. "Courf, we're leaving! You coming or what?"

You sigh. "And that would be my cue."

Jehan nods. His gaze drops to his gun. Silence reigns.

"If I come back," you start, suddenly, without planning to, not really thinking it through but not wanting to leave without saying _something_ , "Could we have a conversation where I'm not at gunpoint? I think I'd like that. You seem nice."

Jehan raises one eyebrow. "'Nice'. Huh." He pauses, stares at some point on the wall above your head, clicks the safety on his gun and says, "Sure, why not. So long as you don't cause trouble. I hate killing civvies."

"I'll return within the week, then." You promise, and tip an invisible hat before making your way out onto the street. 

The others are waiting for you, a combination of impatient and curious. You beam at them and don't say a word.

-

True to your word - because you're always true to your word, you have to be, same way you're always smiling, because if you're not then what are you good for - you're back at the bookshop within a week.

True to his word, the gun stays in Jehan's belt the entire time you're there. Though the same can't be said for the knife he's sharpening, but you have long stopped being unnerved by the presence of weapons. You have grown fond of the romanticism of knives.

(You are perfectly aware how twisted that is. You have also grown ever-so-slightly twisted. It's the end of the world; this is to be expected.)

You talk of poetry, of philosophy, of all kinds of complicated concepts that don't really matter now, but didn't really matter before and the only thing that's really changed is people's awareness of that. Jehan is fascinating, talks like a poem, has a brain like a floral-themed fireworks display, offers to braid daises in your hair when you complain of insomnia as if flowers are a logical cure for nightmares, and you keep coming back. 

Enjolras starts to worry - _Courf, are we sure we can trust him? Courf, I don't know if I like this. You're going off alone, Courf, and I don't trust him, are you sure one of us can't come with you?_ \- but Enjolras always worries. You leave him to it. 

It takes you five weeks and six visits to convince Jehan to come back to the camp with you. You expect him to want to bring his things, are anticipating several trips and possibly enlisting the others help, but he packs one bag with clothes, another with books and a third with weapons and supplies, and that is, apparently, all he needs. 

You are not about to complain. It's not like you've got space to keep things, not really. (Or, well. It's not like you've got things to need space for, more like. So many things that got burnt, or broken, or you couldn't carry, and, well. It's the end of the world; of course you're down to the bare essentials. What else were you expecting to happen?)

You introduce Jehan to the others. He regards Enjolras with a mix of unease, intrigue and begrudging awe, the usual reaction; he treats Combeferre with a natural and easy kind of respect; and he bonds with Grantaire almost immediately, recognising something within him and latching onto it. 

He and Grantaire get drunk and swap horror stories with a sordid kind of glee, talking of knives and blood and terrible odds. You briefly entertain notions of jealousy, but you have no real claim to Jehan, definitely have no right to police who he talks to, and he ends up in your cabin anyway.

After two weeks, it's like Jehan has always been there. He's started, finally, to relax, to smile more, to spend less time obsessively sharpening his knife and more time reciting poetry.

After six weeks, Jehan sits on your lap at dinner and presses your lips together. You make a noise of surprise that is definitely not a squeak, and then earnestly kiss back.

When you break apart, you raise an eyebrow and ask, "What was that for?"

"Your freckles are like stars." Jehan informs him. "And I want to shout about them from the rooftops loud enough for the whole world to hear."

Which is, of course, Jehan-speak for 'I like you a lot'. 

You grin at him and pull him in for another kiss.

-

The first time you see Jehan in action, he's been sleeping in your bed for almost two months.

You're on a raid, to a town in the opposite direction of Jehan's (because it will always be Jehan's town, regardless of how much time he spends there), and a whole pack of Croats appear from nowhere, as they're wont to do. 

It's just the two of you, the others several streets over, and you reach for your gun, but you haven't even clicked the safety off before Jehan attacks, knife in hand.

He's, well. Fucking hell, he's beautiful. He's always beautiful, even when he's killing things. Especially when he's killing things. He could be dancing, he's so graceful. If not for the blood, you'd think he was dancing. Maybe he is. You almost think you hear him humming.

In less than five minutes, Jehan is standing amongst an array of corpses, knife dripping, clothes stained, ear-splitting grin on his face. He looks proud. He looks wild. Christ, he looks like he could eat you alive in a heartbeat. 

This should not make you want to tackle him to the ground, blood and bodies be damned, but you know you're twisted. You've never denied it. You can't see the point. 

(And, Christ, but you wish he'd look at you like that more often.)

**Author's Note:**

> i am [here](http://idoubtthereforeimightbe.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
